From the porch of our small cabin the lake is silver, tinged bolder near the horizon against the pewter fog bank pushing in from the Canadian side. Glimpses of amber morning light are scattered by the towering pines gathered at the lakeshore as a vanguard to their kin dominating the great expanse of near impenetrable forest.
The forest awakens from a night of rain grudgingly. The cool soft perfume of pine and wet moss is omnipresent. The forest remains silent for the moment, but for the lazy patter of furtive rain drops from the branches above falling upon summer fattened leaves. The drops beg the soul to discern a rhythm in concert with their whispering cousins.
Ana is making coffee, its bitter dark scent a contrast to the latent chill of the air. One by one the birds awaken. A family of gulls sweeps silent and low across the lake, enough that the urgent beat of their bent wings disturbs the surface ever so slightly. For a moment I am with them, charging headlong across the lake. I m parceling the sublime perfection of this morning, measured in heartbeats coaxed and cajoled into nothing deeper than to comprehend the commodity of all this. Some of this will remain here and private for me alone. Some will be saved and spent when the world intrudes and assails my heart.
The lake remains silver, even now as the fog filters in, their gray parent clouds falling as a blanket over the shoreline; deepening shadows and softening the world. That amber light is disappeared, scattered and lessened in this mist. The fringes of the world become less defined, the patter on summer fat leaves slower.
Ana steps out cradling her coffee and finds a seat on the porch. One wonders over the thoughts of others, and how they come to a moment such as this. I might wonder how she comes to this, but with her first sip of steaming coffee I can see the tension dissolve from her shoulders and know she feels the same.